Tread Softly
by Sahara Storm
Summary: [Oneshot, YoruSoi] In the days after Yoruichi left, Soi Fong sometimes entertained the inane idea of writing to her.


**Title:** Tread Softly

**Fandom:** Bleach

**Pairing:** None. Maybe Yoruichi/Soi Fong. If you squint. Hard.

**Rating: **PG

**Word Count: **495

**Summary/Description: **In the days after Yoruichi left, Soi Fong sometimes entertained the inane idea of writing to her.

**Warning/Spoilers:** Spoilers for episodes 56-57 of the anime. No warnings, except for a bit of shoujo-ai that isn't really there.

**A/N:** Written for akiomoi's weekly challenge. Prompt: _Dear Jamie… Sincerely Me, _by Hellogoodbye. I like this one a lot better than the last, in terms of my output.

**Disclaimer:** Insert appropriate denial of ownership here.

**Author's Ramblings: **Soi Fong is one of those characters that both amaze and fascinate me. I love her character, because she is so strong – and I love the fact that her strength comes in a small frame; I don't know why – and determined, and seemingly callous, but she is not without her faults and insecurities. I once promised myself that I would never write for her, for fear that I completely botch her character. But, after listening to the song a few times, Yoruichi came to mind – especially with the alternative theme, _her glorious tragedy _– and by conjunction, Soi Fong did also. I suppose it was made easier by the fact that this is past!Soi Fong, but I'm still apprehensive about the whole thing. Hers is a character, a personality so complex and dynamic; I could really never hope to do it justice.

* * *

In the days after Yoruichi left, days when the loneliness rose like jaundice from her stomach, up to choke her, Soi Fong sometimes entertained the inane idea of writing to her.

It was stupid; she acknowledged that fact the first time it came to her. To where would she address it? How would it get there? And most importantly, what would she say?

Oh, but there was so much that she wanted to say; she could admit that to herself. She didn't think, despite all her eagerness and desires to please, that she had ever managed to communicate to Yoruichi-sama just how much she had _admired_ her; wanted with a ferocious longing to emulate her. Yoruichi-sama was the absolute prototype; a skilled warrior, a firm ruler, a benevolent leader. Soi Fong had been in awe of that lazy power, that easy control that she exerted over the forces she commanded. Soi Fong's amazement and admiration had been a welling body of water that threatened to break the dam of her cordiality.

But, she had obviously not managed to make that known. For Yoruichi-sama to just disappear like that, without a word… to break her promise so soon after it had been avowed… the Ruling Commander couldn't have possibly known how she had felt.

But maybe, on paper, with thought-out, carefully delineated words, maybe she could make her see. Make her see that her life was like an old, marrow-less bone, bleached dry and colourless, if she was not devoting it to protecting her. Soi Fong was like a specially crafted machine; she could not function without a purpose, and her purpose was Yoruichi-sama.

And that was why, each and every day that she spent alone, training, it hurt. It hurt like savage nails clawing along the surface of her heart; it hurt so badly, to face the bald fact that she had been left behind.

_Where are you going, Yoruichi-sama? And… why can't you take me?_

But in the end, Soi Fong knew she could not afford to be silly and wistful.

_I could follow you. Quietly. You would not even know I was there._

There would be no writing of letters; no pouring out of the contents of her soul. There was no place for regret or forlornness in the heart of a Shinigami.

_I would tread softly, I would not make a sound. If only just to be by your side, fighting with you, protecting you…_

In the days after Yoruichi left, Soi Fong sometimes entertained the inane idea of writing to her. But of course, she never did. She told herself that it was because of the sheer banality of the idea. To where would she address it? How would it get there? And most importantly, what would she say? It would be a fruitless expedition; that was why, she told herself.

She knew, however, that it was because of the pain that would wrack her frame when no reply was forthwith.

* * *

**A/N: **Why, yes, I _do_ like Yeats. Why do you ask? XP

All comments/critiques welcome.


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